Appointed to Die (9 page)

‘Have we?' Victor asked sharply.

‘Yes, I'm
sure
that I told you, Vic. I've asked that Hunt girl, Kirsty her name is, to give a hand. She seems reliable.'

‘Oh, well.' Victor sighed in relief. ‘As long as you haven't asked that American boy.'

‘What's the matter with him?' Lucy couldn't help asking.

Smirking, Victor told her. ‘Not a thing. That's the problem. He's just too gorgeous for words, my dear. Far too distracting.'

‘Utterly wasted on the Hunt girl, if you ask me.' Bert shook his head sadly.

Suddenly Victor grinned. ‘Speaking of Rowena . . .'

‘Were we?' interposed Bert.

‘You mentioned her daughter. Same difference, dear. Speaking of Rowena, have you seen her this morning, Canon?'

‘No, not yet. Why?'

‘She's absolutely spitting nails!' Victor announced with relish.

The Canon looked stricken. ‘Because I haven't been to see her?'

‘No, of course not, my dear man.' Victor lowered his voice to achieve some semblance of discretion. ‘It's the new Dean.'

‘What has he done now?' Lucy wanted to know.

‘Well!' Victor made a great show of looking around to ensure they weren't overheard, and went on in a loud, carrying whisper. ‘She's just found out that he's bringing in a posh London florist to do the cathedral for his installation. At least all the flowers that matter – he's allowing the Friends to do a few things for the nave and the choir aisles. And of course they won't get a look-in at the garden party afterwards. The London lot will have that all sewn up. Our Rowena really threw a wobbly when she found out. Tried to hide it, of course, but . . .' He gurgled, interrupting himself.

‘Well, it's no wonder, is it, when she's got Dorothy to deal with? The Dean can't be having Dorothy doing his flowers,' Bert put in.

‘She's handled Dorothy very well today, you must admit! Put her back behind the font, where she can't do much damage. Very clever, our Rowena.'

‘Who's Dorothy?' asked Lucy, enjoying the exchange.

‘Dorothy Unworth,' said Victor.

‘She runs the refectory,' Bert added.

‘And her idea of arranging flowers . . . well, my dear!' Victor rolled his eyes expressively. ‘Three red gladioli, done strictly by the book.'

‘Have a look,' Bert urged. ‘Behind the font. You'll see what we mean.'

‘And if you think her flowers are appalling . . .' Victor went on, ‘you should try her food! Her sausage rolls should be registered as lethal weapons!'

‘And those nauseating Bakewell tarts with the little cherries on top . . .' shuddered Bert.

‘But we're not trying to influence you, my dear,' Victor finished triumphantly. ‘You must see for yourself, and make up your own mind.'

As they moved off towards the back of the cathedral, John Kingsley whispered to Lucy, ‘They're really not that bad, you know.'

‘Oh, I thought they were quite sweet.'

He looked baffled for a moment, then said, ‘Oh, no, I didn't mean them. Not Victor and Bert.' He paused. ‘I meant the sausage rolls.'

They reached the font some time later, after Canon Kingsley had duly cheered on the ladies who manned the stations around the nave pillars. These six spots had been allocated to the six largest parish churches in the diocese; the parishes' prize flower arrangers were fiercely competitive and jealous of their own skills, and each display was larger and showier than the one before it. But the Canon somehow managed to make each woman feel that her arrangement was superior to all the others.

Lurking in the dark south-west corner of the cathedral, the neo-Norman font resembled a large round bath-tub, exuberantly zigzagged and dogtoothed. With its large, heavy wooden cover, it quite effectively blocked from view the triumvirate of red gladioli. Lucy and her father peered around the bulk of the font to discover that Dorothy Unworth was even at that moment adding a judiciously chosen supporting cast to show off her three stars to better effect. She was concentrating raptly, a small frown puckering her forehead, and they hesitated to disturb her. Had she not already been informed to the contrary, Lucy might have mistaken Dorothy Unworth for the Bishop's secretary: she looked the sort of woman who would suffer no nonsense from anyone, not even a Bishop. She appeared to be in her mid- to late-fifties, and could have been described as well-upholstered rather than plump; Lucy imagined that any recalcitrant bulges of fat were marshalled into a strong corset, just as her iron-grey hair was permed into regimented waves. Her mouth was small and pursed, now, in a scowl of concentration, but it was hard to imagine that mouth ever smiling in anything but the most perfunctory way. She had sturdy legs with thick ankles, encased in heavy support stockings; her only adornment, if it merited that description, was the blue- and white-enamelled Mothers' Union badge on the collar of her polyester dress. In fact, Lucy realised with a quickly suppressed giggle, Dorothy Unworth rather resembled the font in shape, and the zigzag pattern of her dress was not unlike that which encircled the massive round bowl.

Miss Dorothy Unworth was not, and had never been, the sort of woman to entertain foolish fancies about anyone. But for some reason, perhaps because he appreciated her sausage rolls, she had a real soft spot for Canon Kingsley. As she realised that he was standing by, she looked up from the scarlet gladioli with the baring of teeth that was her version of a smile.

‘Good morning, Miss Unworth,' he said. ‘You have a nice quiet corner back here, don't you?'

It was the wrong thing to say. Her semblance of a smile faded immediately, to be replaced by a thunderous look. ‘That Woman!' she barked – she never gave Rowena the courtesy of a name. ‘Who does she think she is? She's shunted me off into this poky corner . . .'

Alarmed, he tried to repair the damage. ‘But the font is a very important spot, Miss Unworth. The place where we first receive our membership in the family of God. It's a great honour to be stationed by the font . . .'

‘Hardly!' She withered him with her scorn. ‘That's what
she
said. That Woman. That's what she'd like me to believe. But she can't fool me that easily.
In
the font, certainly. Or in front of the font. But
behind
the font? I ask you! Is this the way I'm repaid for a lifetime of service to this cathedral?'

‘I'm sure it wasn't meant . . .'

‘I'm sure it was! But
he's
seen through her!' A look of satisfaction crossed her face. ‘The new Dean. Have you heard? About the flowers for the installation? A real slap in the face for That Woman!' Like many people who are hard of hearing, she spoke far more loudly than she realised.

The woman in question had just finished her own arrangements, two six-foot high towers, all in green, on either side of the west door. She was therefore near enough to have overheard Dorothy Unworth's scathing comments, had she been listening. But Rowena wasn't listening. She was thanking Inspector Michael Drewitt for his labours on behalf of the Friends of the Cathedral.

‘Inspector, it's been most kind of you to give up your morning like this.'

‘It's been my pleasure, ma'am.' He clicked his heels together and grinned ironically. ‘And please call me Mike. All of my friends do.'

‘Your wife didn't mind sparing you this morning?' She raised her finely-shaped eyebrows in inquiry. ‘Mike?'

‘My wife,' he said, giving the word just a slight emphasis, ‘has her own life to lead. And she's used to me leading my own life. Ma'am.' His eyes lingered on her just an instant too long.

‘Perhaps . . .' She hesitated fractionally. ‘Perhaps you might like to come round for a cup of tea one day next week. So that I can thank you properly for your hard work. When you're off duty, that is . . .'

Mike Drewitt smiled. ‘Yes, ma'am. I'd like that very much.'

CHAPTER 7

    
O how sweet are thy words unto my throat: yea, sweeter than honey unto my mouth.

Psalm 119.103

During the late breakfast shared by Lucy and her father, a delivery was made by the local florist shop: the choicest of the flowers that they had remaining after the cathedral's onslaught, a peace offering from Jeremy to Lucy. She'd been feeling quite guilty enough about her defensive outburst without this added burden, and so when Jeremy turned up on the doorstep that afternoon, inviting her to accompany him to have a look at the flower festival, she felt that she could hardly say no.

‘Daddy, wouldn't you like to come, too?' she urged quickly.

A disappointed Jeremy managed to conceal his feelings well. ‘Yes, Canon, you'd be very welcome to join us,' he said with a smile.

‘Oh, no. I think I've seen enough of the flower festival,' he demurred.

‘Then perhaps I should stay with you . . .' suggested Lucy.

‘Not at all, my dear. You go along. I've got a sermon to write.' He hesitated a moment. ‘Would you mind running a little errand for me while you're out?'

‘Anything, Daddy.'

‘It won't take you out of your way. If you wouldn't mind calling in at the Cathedral Shop and picking up a box of crème de menthe Turkish Delight . . .'

‘What?' She looked at him in amazement.

‘Crème de menthe Turkish Delight,' Canon Kingsley repeated. ‘For Arthur Brydges-ffrench. Just a little gift to cheer him up. It's his weakness,' he added in explanation. ‘He can't resist the stuff.'

Lucy shook her head. ‘If you say so. But I must say it sounds rather disgusting to me.'

It had turned out to be a blazing hot day in Malbury: the sun beat down upon the Close, and in its centre the cathedral shimmered in the heat. For once, the chill of the cathedral interior was a welcome relief if something of a shock. Lucy nearly gasped involuntarily as they entered; it was almost like plunging into a cold, dark pool of water. For a moment they paused at the end of the foreshortened nave, with its massive round Norman pillars and heavy rounded arches, and waited for their eyes to adjust to the gloom.

It soon became evident that others had preceded them in the quest for a cool spot to spend the afternoon: the cathedral was full of people. ‘Well!' Jeremy said with some surprise. ‘It looks like old Arthur Brydges-ffrench was right! Things are definitely picking up.'

‘Yes,' a voice said from beside them. It was Rowena, looking very self-satisfied – and very lovely, in a flame-coloured sundress that complemented her black hair and showed off her perfectly tanned shoulders. Had Lucy been an envious person she would have envied that tan: hers was the sort of creamy fair skin that so often goes with her hair colour, skin that turns painfully red at the first hint of sun. On days like this one she had to be especially careful, keeping her shoulders and her arms well covered; she would never dare to wear a sundress.

Rowena had an armload of programmes. ‘It's going very well,' she said. ‘The weather certainly hasn't done us any harm – it seems that quite a few people have come in to get out of the heat. And there have been a lot of people who've said that they'd been to the Three Choirs Festival, so it looks like Canon Brydges-ffrench was right about catching people on their way home from Hereford.'

‘I must admit that I had my doubts about that reasoning,' Jeremy said. ‘But I'm glad if I was wrong.'

Proffering a programme at him, Rowena smiled. ‘Were you wanting to look round?'

‘You're not going to make us pay, are you?' Jeremy raised his eyebrows in mock horror.

‘I'm afraid so. One pound – each – for admission, and another pound for the programme.'

‘No discounts?'

‘No discounts.'

‘You drive a hard bargain, Mrs Hunt.' Jeremy's tone was flippant but cordial as he reached into his pocket. ‘But I suppose it's all in a good cause.'

‘If we pop into the Cathedral Shop now,' Jeremy suggested some time later, after a detailed perusal of the flower festival, ‘we should still have time for a cup of tea in the refectory before the Festival Evensong.'

‘Is the refectory all right?' asked Lucy. ‘I've been warned about it. By those two chaps who run the shop. Victor and Bert.'

‘Oh, you mean Victoria and Albert?' He quirked his eyebrows humorously.

Lucy laughed with real amusement. ‘Don't tell me. It's perfect. Do they know you call them that?'

‘I doubt it.' He grinned. ‘Though I think everyone else in the Close does. Anyway, they're right about the refectory. I wouldn't recommend eating a meal there – the food's pretty grim. But it's just about acceptable for a cup of tea.'

‘Well, lead on then.'

The Cathedral Shop did not seem to be overrun with business when they arrived. Bert was engaged with a tourist who appeared to be an American, judging by the quantity of cameras which were slung around his neck and which bounced against his ample paunch as he leaned eagerly over the counter. ‘So you're telling me,' he said in a voice which confirmed his transatlantic origins, ‘that Brother Thomas isn't the same as Thomas à Becket.'

‘That's right,' Bert said patiently.

‘Well, that explains it.' The man nodded in satisfaction. ‘We're staying at the Monk's Head Inn, here in town, and I was sure that the manager told me that Brother Thomas got his head chopped off by Henry VIII. But I got confused last night by that play.'

‘Two different Thomases,' reiterated Bert with a sage nod. ‘Two different martyrdoms.'

‘I'm sure glad to get that cleared up. Did you hear that, honey?' he called across the shop to his wife, who was looking at T-shirts with Victor. Without waiting for a reply, he went on, ‘I'll have some postcards of that Becket window. It's pretty old, isn't it?'